Death of a Brother
by John Silver fan
Summary: Inspired by the 1991 and 1992 movies with Christopher Lee as Holmes and Patrick Macnee as Watson. Takes place after the movies. T for safety
1. Chapter 1

"We are gathered here today the mourn the loss of a great man, perhaps one of the greatest the world has ever known. Today, we bid farewell to Sherlock Holmes."

The preachers words and everything else around me seemed to fade away as I became lost in my thoughts. It's still just so unbelievable. I don't think that I've still quite fully processed and accepted it yet. Well, I'm not sure I'll ever actually accept it.

He's gone. He's really gone this time.

There was no stroke of luck in his favor, no miracle to save him. There will be no triumphant return. Not this time.

I had seen him survive so much that I nearly thought him invincible. I was completely wrong.

We let our guard down, and Holmes paid for it. In a split second, everything changed. In a split second, my life was turned upside down as Holmes lost his.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective was dead.

This is the story of his final moments...

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><p><strong>End Note: Hey, readers. I seem to be an angst, tragedy writer when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. I don't have the slightest clue as to why, but oh well. Anyway, please review, and know that this story will be updated at different speeds, depending on my inspiration.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes and I had finally tracked the trio of killers to their hideout in an old abandoned warehouse.

"Have your revolver at the ready, Watson."

""Holmes, shouldn't we wait for Lestrade and his men?"

My friend looked at me and flashed half a smile.

"So he can bungle things like last time? I think not, dear fellow."

I sighed.

"You know he didn't do it on purpose."

"I never said he did. On purpose or by accident, the last time we waited for him, the criminals nearly got away and you and Clark were nearly killed. We cannot wait for such an occurrence to happen again. I have no doubt that these men are much better shots than the ones we arrested two months ago."

I nodded, seeing his point.

"Are you sure we can handle the three of them?"

He looked at me.

"Of course I am. We've handled more than three before."

I refrained from saying that we hadn't been in our fifties when we did so. Holmes drew his own revolver and cocked it.

"Lets go."

I followed my friend around to the back to a large, broken window. We climbed through and carefully made our way towards the killers; Michael Hunter, Simon Jenson, and Drake Taylor.

Crouched behind some crates, Holmes took aim at Michael while I set my sights on Drake. We opened fire, shooting to disable.

Michael and Drake fell, clutching their wounds while Simon dove for cover. Holmes was after him in the blink of an eye while I disarmed the other two.

A fire fight began between Holmes and Simon.

I watched, worried for my friend. Though appearing in top form, at his age, even Holmes couldn't stay on top for too long. Simon was much younger than us and thus had an advantage over my friend.

Holmes, of course, was more experienced, but experience could only take one so far.

The fight continued, and I could only watch, knowing a moment of distraction for Holmes could prove fatal.

Finally, I heard Simon cry out in pain. He fell from behind the crate he was using as cover, his right shoulder bleeding.

Holmes rose and came over to me.

"Well, Watson, a job well done."

I smiled, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

There was a movement from Simon. A gun went off, and Holmes jerked almost as if he had been punched. He looked down then looked back up at me, his face twisted in shock then pain. Then, he collapsed, blood staining his lower back.

He had been shot.

I was firing even before I realized I had redrawn my gun. My shot went true and killed Simon. I then dropped down beside Holmes and gently turned him over, holding him in my arms.

"Holmes! Holmes, speak to me!"

He coughed wetly.

"Watson, perhaps you were right."

He winced and gasped in pain.

"Perhaps we should have waited."

"Don't worry about that now, Holmes. I've got to get you out of here."

My friend gave me a pained smile.

"Always a doctor, eh? Even you should know it won't help."

I could feel the color leaving my face.

"No. Holmes, I-"

"It's all right, dear fellow."

How could he be so calm? He _knew_ he was dying, and yet he was so calm, as if he were simply going to sleep.

"Watson."

"Yes, Holmes."

He weakly grasped my shoulder.

"You're my best friend. I wouldn't take back anything of these years to save my life."

_If only we could._

I could feel tears burning my eyes.

"I know I never showed it enough. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, old boy."

He smiled and tugged weakly at my shoulder, as if to bring me closer, so I leaned down to him. However, I never expected what happened next.

He hugged me.

"You're my brother,… John."

Tears began to trickle down my face, and I gently hugged him back.

"And you are mine, Sherlock."

I pulled back to see him smiling.

"I'll be waiting for you,… brother."

He went limp, and the light faded from his dark eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

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><p><strong>End Note: Please review.<br>**


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade and his men arrived moments later.

"Doctor Watson, what's- oh my!"

I looked at him, tears running down my face.

"Is he…?"

I nodded sadly.

"I'm so sorry. We came as quickly as we could."

"I know. Holmes wouldn't wait. We just… let our guard down."

It took four constables to pry Holmes' body from my arms; two holding onto me while the other two pried him from my vise-like grip.

As they took his body away numbness washed over me. I suddenly felt empty and alone. I stared after them, feeling as though a rather large part of me was gone.

"Doctor Watson!"

I turned to Lestrade, who, judging from the tone and volume of his call, must have been saying my name for a few moments in an unsuccessful attempt to gain my attention.

"Yes, Inspector?"

"Does Mr. Holmes have any living relatives?"

I blinked at the question then realized that Lestrade probably didn't read my stories upon actually working with Holmes from time to time and therefore knew little to nothing of what bits of Holmes' personal life I had written about.

"Yes. An older brother, Mycroft."

He nodded.

"He will need to be notified at once."

"I will do so myself once I… get back to Bakerstreet."

The thought of returning to Bakerstreet without Holmes ever being there again was more painful that I ever thought it would be.

"Very well, Doctor. Now, can you tell me what happened?"

"I would… prefer to wait, Inspector. At least for a couple hours. I need some time after… all of this."

His expression was quite easily read as a mix of sympathy, pity, and understanding.

"Understood. Clark and I shall come by tomorrow afternoon. Go on home, Doctor."

Nodding in thanks and farewell, I left.

If I had thought that the thought and notion of returning to Bakerstreet with the knowledge that Holmes would never be there again hurt, then the actually act of it was agony, excruciating torture. I nearly broke down into the tears the very moment I stepped in through the apartment door.

"Doctor Watson?"

I turned to see Mrs. Hudson. Holmes had always been fond of her and she of him, despite the trouble he often caused her.

"Mrs. Hudson,... something has happened."

Her expression became worried.

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you once Mycroft is here. He needs to know, too."

Mycroft soon arrived.

"What does Sherlock find so important that he must drag me from my work?"

"Holmes didn't call for you, Mycroft. I did."

He looked at me.

"You, doctor?"

"Please sit down."

Picking up that something was wrong, he obeyed, sitting near Mrs. Hudson.

"Where _is_ Sherlock, doctor?"

I sat in my chair.

"Something happened."

Mycroft stiffened, and I could fear glittering in his eyes. Despite their differences and rather strained relationship, neither brother would ever wish harm upon the other.

"Is Sherlock all right?"

I took a breath, knowing I was about to shatter part of their lives. Holmes had always been a strong presence in their lives, in all our lives.

"He's dead."

Mycroft's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Mrs. Hudson covered her own mouth, tears filling her eyes.

I dragged my gaze to my friend's brother. He was staring at me in shock and disbelief. His eyes, intense like Holmes', seemed to beg me to tell him it wasn't true.

"Dead?" he finally managed to say, his voice hoarse.

I nodded.

"Yes. About an hour ago."

The elder Holmes seemed to deflate, still shocked.

"How?"

I sadly recounted the tale to them. Once I finished I saw it; a single tear slid down Mycroft's cheek.

Mycroft and Holmes were about as different as day and night, but, deep down, they had cared for each other. Now Holmes was gone, torn from us before his time.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but there was nothing anyone could have done for him," I said gently.

He nodded and stood, looking rather numb.

"I'll leave it to you to make the arrangements, doctor. You knew him better than anyone else."

He paused at the door.

"Doctor."

"Yes?"

He looked at me.

"You were his best friend. Thank you."

With that he left.


End file.
